


Draco's Revenge

by LaBelladoneX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based on Drarry fanart, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blame Claire, But it's nice torture, Come Eating, Come Marking, Come as Lube, F/M, Hi Kate!, I'm Going to Hell, Light Bondage, Masturbation, My 15 year old subscribes to my account, Stripping, Torture, Your mother's got issues!, upthehillart, upthehillartnsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelladoneX/pseuds/LaBelladoneX
Summary: Every day she practically brought him to his knees. Every day she drove him wild.Now Draco's out for revenge.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 31
Kudos: 191





	Draco's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coyg_81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyg_81/gifts).



> Once upon a time there were two Dramione fans who met on the internet and, luckily for both of them, neither was a serial killer or into Zumba. They did share a love of all things Harry Potter, however, and… and… em… well, I’m sure there was something else they both liked. 
> 
> Oh, yeah… Yorkshire Tea. And Tom Felton… until he went for the unwashed look. I gave up then. Helloooo Jason Isaacs! 
> 
> Anyway, coyg-81 wrote Draco’s Surprise, a smutty one-shot that I bravely edited — my first toe in the water of editing fanfiction. And now, two years and a rather racy pic from @upthehillnsfw later, Draco gets his revenge — in a sequel very loosely based on the original.
> 
> Also, my Valentine’s Fest story was only T-rated. As an apology, please accept this peace offering. I’ll try not to do it again.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, PotionChemist. Love you the most!

<https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/990031>

Link to Draco's Surprise by coyg_81: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694769>

He was sick. 

Sick of the pain and discomfort.

Sick of the aching that wouldn’t go away unless he froze under the stinging burn of ice cold water, or took to visualising horrific scenes that would cause nightmares for even the bravest of men. 

Filch’s balls.

Umbridge’s saggy tits. 

Filch’s toothless gums sucking Umbridge’s saggy tits. 

Mushrooms.

Weasleys.

Anything that would take his mind off the torture she put him through on a regular basis. 

Didn’t she realise? 

Didn’t she understand what she did to him every bloody time she wore a short skirt or a low-cut blouse? What about those stockings with the seam up the back that led to her delicious...

Yeah, there was no fucking doubt. She did realise. There was no way she didn’t know that she was driving him insane. As for that stunt the other day when she bent over and revealed her dripping lips to him, touching herself while he tore at the bonds she’d tied him to the bed with… yeah, that fucking lioness knew _exactly_ what she was up to. 

He smiled wickedly as an idea slowly revealed itself, coiling and twisting around in his mind like a serpent teasing its prey until he was happy he could get his revenge and leave her screaming.

And there was no greater sound than Hermione Granger-Malfoy screaming.

* * *

“Draco, I might be late,” Hermione announced, dashing into the kitchen and grabbing a fresh partridgeberry muffin from the counter. “I need to check over some of the interns work again—”

“Hermione, stop.” Her husband placed his coffee down on the kitchen table and reached for her. Without thinking she automatically stepped into his familiar embrace. “It’s Friday. The interns don’t finish for another fortnight. You’re pregnant, you can’t get stressed over something you know you have plenty of time to do. And, before you tell me you’re only pregnant and not an invalid, I _know_ we’re going to have this conversation many times over the next seven months. So, please, come home at the usual time and don’t give them a second thought.”

“But—”

Draco leaned forward to place his lips gently on her forehead, his trick for calming her down before she went full Hermione on him. He breathed in her fairy bell shampoo and body lotions, closing his eyes to imagine running his tongue against her collarbone and tasting the sweet berry fragrance on her skin. _Not now, Draco. Trelawney in nothing but a diaphanous shawl… shagging that Finnigan arsehole… yeah, that’ll do it._

“For me, Hermione? Please?”

He felt her sigh slowly against his shoulder. “Alright. I’ll be home by five.”

Draco smiled wickedly. “And I’ll be waiting for you, my love.”

* * *

The Floo roared to life just as the evening sky was beginning to reveal the manor’s hidden shadows. Candles magically ignited as Hermione walked along the hallway towards the kitchen, expecting to find Draco standing at the range with his sleeves rolled up and a deep concentration etched into his handsome face as he experimented with different sauces and garnishes. Surprisingly the room was in darkness, a chill in the air indicating no one had been there for some time. 

She knew the House-elves were off for the evening — it was Poker night at Harry’s and, considering Kreacher was well known for his extravagance when hosting, chances were the elves wouldn’t return until dawn at the earliest. Harry was probably staying over at Pansy’s again; the last time he remained at Grimmauld Place on Poker night he’d walked in on Winky pole-dancing provocatively to Celestina’s first hit single _Is That an Extra Twig on Your Broomstick or Are You Pleased to See Me?_

Hermione turned towards the living room, finding it as abandoned as the kitchen. In fact the entire ground floor of the manor was as quiet as Fred and George when they were obviously up to something devious… or dangerous. Or both.

“Draco? I’m home! Where are you?”

There was no reply. Strange. Draco usually worked from home and he would always contact her if he had an appointment elsewhere. 

Hermione climbed the stairs to the first floor, noticing the two hallways that extended from the sweeping staircase were also shrouded in darkness. She continued up to the second floor, eventually spotting a low light peeking out from the bottom of the closed door leading to Draco’s study. 

She smiled to herself. _And he thinks_ I _work too hard. He probably hasn’t even stopped to have lunch._

Hermione walked towards the heavy oak door, images coming to mind of her husband busy at work — his strong shoulders hunched over various rolls of parchment, soft hair falling over his forehead, the index finger on his right hand tapping against the teak mid-century desk he loved so much.

Knocking lightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit room. 

“Draco? Are you here?”

Shadows darkened his study, concealing the numerous bookshelves and photographs that adorned the walls and low tables. Draco’s desk was neatly presented, several parchments were rolled and tied together, a diary was open on the blotter pad, and his favourite quills were arranged to the left side. The layout was exactly the way he’d leave it when he finished his work. 

So where was he?

Hermione frowned, turning to leave as the door slammed shut of its own accord. 

“What the—”

She pulled at the handle before retrieving her wand from her pocket and attempting numerous spells in order to free herself. 

“For fuck—”

“Now, now, Hermione. Do watch your language.”

Hermione spun around, her wand ready to hex the shite out of whoever startled her. Breathing heavily, her pulse began to pound as adrenaline kicked in. 

War will do that to you. 

But sometimes the shadows are quicker. 

Her wand flew across the room and she found herself flying towards one of the retro leather swivel chairs that were placed in front of Draco’s desk. She was dropped into the seat and immediately bound with a length of emerald hemp, the softness of the rope smooth against her skin. Her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair and her legs were pulled apart, secured to the stainless steel base.

She should have been nervous. 

But excitement began to course through her. 

“Draco Malfoy, what are you doing with my Shibari rope?” She grinned, pulling against her restraints and feeling the tops of her thighs dampen. 

“ _Your_ Shibari rope?” His voice carried a note of amusement. “Do we not _share_ in this marriage?”

“Oh, we share a lot,” she teased, turning her head towards the sound of her husband. “Our love of reading, our slight obsession with 1970s disaster movies, and our hatred of weak tea… not to forget quite a lot of bodily fluids… should I go on?”

“No, there’s no need,” Draco replied, his voice growing louder as he stepped out of the shadows. He took a seat opposite his wife, swinging the matching chair around freely as he spoke. 

“You know, I can’t really decide if you tease me on purpose or not,” he mused, twirling around in circles like a child on a carousel. “I think you do but then I wonder if there is any hint of Slytherin in you. I’d like to assume you wouldn’t be so devious but, then again, we all know what _assume_ does.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you? Well, let me explain.” Draco stopped spinning and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “When you’re shopping for clothes — not robes, your Muggle clothes that you love so much — do you purposefully pick the tightest skirts? The low-cut blouses? Those grey trousers that make your legs go on for days; what were you thinking when you tried them on in the dressing room? Or what about that pale blue dress with the back cut so low that the swell of your arse is on display for all to see? What was going through your mind when you saw that on the hanger?” He sat back in the chair, casually crossing his legs. “I do wonder about these things, you know.”

“I always think of you when I shop for clothes,” Hermione replied truthfully, wondering where his train of thought was heading. “If I think you’ll like something on me, I’ll buy it.”

“So you only shop for me?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you really must hate me then.”

“Wh-what?” Hermione pulled at the ropes around her wrists. “What are you talking about?”

“You torture me, Hermione. Every day. You put me through hell every time you put on those stockings with the seam that stretches up the back of your legs, or those skinny jeans that mould your arse into the perfect fit for my hands. As for your yoga pants…” he eyed her threateningly, “I will rip them from your body the next time you wear them.”

She raised an eyebrow in reply. “Is that a promise?”

“Do you realise how many times a day I’m hard? Even if we’ve fucked in the morning — be it in bed or the shower — as soon as you’re dressed in those Muggle clothes, I’m aching for you again. When I’m working, sitting at this desk—” he tapped his fingers lightly along the aged wood “—I might glance at your photograph and then I remember what you’re wearing. And, before I know what’s happening, I’m wanking to the images of your body in whatever you’ve chosen to wear.”

Hermione gasped, her body reacting violently to his words. The thoughts of Draco touching himself just because of what she was wearing had her practically dripping in front of him. It was an intoxicating feeling; it gave her power over him and yet, here she was, dressed only to please him. She would do anything for him. 

So who really had the power?

She lived for him. 

And he’d promised on their wedding day that he breathed only for her. 

“But that’s not all, Hermione,” Draco continued, dragging her away from her thoughts. “Then you have the cheek to tease me in other ways… ways that have me tied up and desperate to touch you. Who does such a sly thing to the person they’re supposed to love? Hmm?” He stood and casually walked over to her chair, his hands behind his back. “Who lies back on a chaise and opens her legs, getting herself off while her husband is practically screaming to be untied and hard as a fucking rock?” He bent over, his lips stopping a hair’s breadth from her ear. “You do, Hermione. You do.”

“You loved it,” she tried to goad him, her breathing heavy. Every part of her was reacting to his proximity; her skin prickling as the warmth of his spearmint taste ghosted across the goosebumps rising in need of his fingertips, her breasts aching to be weighed in his hands, nipples yearning to be pinched and sucked. She tried to pull her legs together, to feel even the slightest friction against her lips. Her clit was pulsing with want, released from its bud in search of nipping teeth and a talented tongue. But her bonds kept her legs apart and her desire dripping from her drenched lace to her skirt, no doubt staining the seat of her chair. 

“Did I?” he whispered, still leaning closely to her ear, loving how she trembled. It wouldn’t be long before she was begging. “Did I enjoy not being able to touch you? To kiss you? Lick you? _Bite you?_ Do you honestly think that was fun for me? How would you like it, Hermione? How would you like to be held against your will and refused one of the few things in this life that makes it all worthwhile? How would you like to be denied the touch of your lover?”

His words had an instant effect. “Draco, it was fun,” Hermione replied, trying to remain calm although her body was screaming for him. “If I thought you didn’t enjoy it, I would have—”

“What would you have done?” His voice was harsh, abrupt as he quickly stood and strode across the room to the drinks trolley. Two fingers of Baileys cushioned the brief _plop_ of ice cubes, and Draco watched them float amidst the creamy liquid momentarily before continuing. “When you’ve lived a life of coldness, without the comforting hand of a parent, without the love that I’ve seen shared between you and your family… the thoughts of not having the ability to hold you, even for those brief moments… don’t ever do that to me again, Hermione.”

She froze, his words sinking rapidly into the depths of her soul and mercilessly tearing at her insides. She never thought, not for a moment. It was all supposed to be fun. She would _never_ purposefully hurt him, surely he knew that!

Tears welled in her eyes as she watched him. He continued to stare at his drink, his hand moving slightly so the ice cubes collided in the choppy waters of the soothing alcohol. 

“Draco, please… look at me.”

He raised his head, a mischievous glint in his eye sparkling in the candlelight. 

“Gotcha.”

It took a moment for Hermione to register what he’d said. She blinked a few times in confusion, her brow furrowed. “What did you say?”

“I said,” he remarked, casually walking back to the chair and taking his seat once more, “Gotcha.”

“So you’re not angry?”

“Not in the least. Frustrated, yes. Wound up, definitely. Plotting revenge, already done.”

“You are such a—”

“Bastard?” He grinned, the Slytherin within him practically oozing from his pores. “No, I assure you I can prove my heritage.” He slowly sipped his drink, taking time to run his tongue seductively across his lips. 

“I’d offer you a drink but I can see you’re a bit tied up.”

“You think?!” Hermione spat, “So what happens now, Draco? Am I to stay here until I starve?”

“Oh, no! That would be cruel. The House-elves love to feed you. I was thinking of playing you at your own game… see how you like it.”

“So what are you going to do?” she enquired, “Get yourself off in front of me?”

“Oh, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, Hermione. And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

He waved his hand, casting a silent _Petrificus Totalus_ in her direction. The next spell removed her Muggle clothes, leaving Hermione still tied to the chair wearing only her lace bra and soaking underwear. 

“I can smell your arousal,” Draco commented, slowly removing his silver cufflinks. “I can see your excitement seeping from your body, marking my leather chair.” The links were placed on the desk and he turned to face Hermione in order to slowly roll up his sleeves. He knew this act alone would have his wife panting; his bare forearms were her weak spot… along with several other parts of his body. “Maybe I’ll leave the stains… to remind me of the effect I seem to have on you.”

He stood to unbuckle his belt, pulling it firmly through the loops on his trousers. It was then twisted around his hand and slid from his fingers to rest beside the cufflinks like a serpentine protector. Draco kept his eyes firmly on Hermione as he pulled his shirt from the confines of his trousers, his platinum wedding ring glistening in the candlelight with each button he slowly opened. After what felt like a lifetime to Hermione, his chest was revealed. The _Sectumsempra_ scars were faint lines now, barely noticeable unless one knew to look for them, and his dusky pink nipples appeared small and tight. They were sensitive to touch, Hermione loved to run the tip of her tongue across their small peaks, just to feel the vibration run through Draco’s body at the gentle movement. But, from her current position, all she could do was imagine and hope he’d be kind enough to let her… once he’d tortured her enough. 

Draco let the shirt slip from his shoulders to gather in a heap on the carpet at his feet. Hermione could do nothing but blink and breathe heavily through her nose. His body was pale, like a marble statue, all lines and contours. He was a specimen to be admired, to be caressed… by her fingers only. 

“I do hope you won’t start to drool, Hermione,” Draco said casually, sitting back down to quickly remove his shoes and socks. “I’ll just get this bit over quickly, removing one’s footwear is the least sexy part, don’t you think?”

Although her body was rigid, Hermione felt herself shaking inside. She knew her essence was flowing from her body, her desire clouding the air around them. It was heady, intoxicating, addictive. All she wanted was to feel Draco’s lips on hers, sucking the creamy fluid that only his words and touch could conjure up. No one else had ever cast such a lustful spell on her, and she knew no one else ever would. 

“Well, now,” he began, leaning forward to tap his index finger lightly against her frozen lips, “We come to the main attraction. Let’s see how much you like being teased, Hermione. I wonder what you’ll feel like knowing you can look but you can’t touch.”

He reached down to the button on the waistband of his trousers, flicking it open to reveal the zipper. Showing off — as only Draco Malfoy could — he casually pointed at the metal fastening and watched Hermione’s eyes follow its descent. The only sound in the room was the brief hissing of the zip opening and, in that moment, it was probably one of the most erotic sounds he’d ever heard.

His favourite, of course, being the orgasmic screams of his wife. 

Draco never wore underwear; he had explained to Hermione that going commando was a pure-blood tradition dating back to the times of Merlin — although the great wizard himself would have used some less modern term for it. _Methinks I shalt has't to wend without braies tom'rrow, yond wench didn't washeth mine own und'rwear_ … or something. 

And, considering he’d already taken a pure-blood tradition and given it the two fingers by marrying for love instead of position, he figured holding onto one or two less important traditions would make up for his personal rebellion. So he didn’t wear underwear and he dressed as a woman on Saturnalia. 

The zip lowered to reveal just a hint of the trimmed dark blond hair around Draco’s cock. He raised his body slightly, pushing the trousers past his hips.

“Oops,” he grinned, “Can’t let that get caught, now can we?” 

He slipped his hand into the confines of the trousers to release his erection, letting it bounce against his taut stomach muscles while he continued to strip. 

Hermione was screaming in her head, screaming in her throat, screaming in her pulsing core… her body was on fire. Her breathing was laboured through her nose, her eyes were streaming from frustration and desire. She ached within for him but she knew he wasn’t going to let her off that easily. 

Draco’s clothes were cast aside to a forgotten corner of the room and he reclined in the chair opposite Hermione, casually stroking his cock while he chatted conversationally. 

“You know, usually when I’m touching myself I’m fully dressed and sitting on the other side of the desk. No one sees me get off to the images of you I have in my mind. Now you have a front row seat to exactly what you do to me on a daily basis.” He began to stroke harder, his hand twisting slightly when it reached the glans, his foreskin sliding against his fingers. “Hmm… I could really hurt myself if I continued wanking without any type of lubricant. I could chafe. And that would be rather unpleasant, wouldn’t it?”

He pulled his chair closer to Hermione’s so their knees were almost touching and, without taking his eyes off hers, Draco reached between her legs and gathered her seeping moisture onto his fingertips. 

“That should do,” he mused, sitting back and massaging her arousal onto his cock. “So soft, so creamy… so delicious. I could suck you like a lollipop, Hermione—” he winked “—just like you suck me.”

He sighed, closing his eyes and dropping his head back, his hand still gliding up and down his pulsing erection. “It never takes me long to come when I’m like this. I’m like a fucking teenager when it comes to you, witch. I’m so fucking hard right now… so… fucking… hard…”

Hermione couldn’t stand it any longer. She longed to fall to her knees and take him in her mouth. She wanted to taste his release on her tongue, feel it sliding down her throat, coat it across her lips and kiss him desperately. _Please, please, Draco, please, release me, please… I won’t do it again, I won’t tease you, please, please, please…_

Draco’s breathing intensified, his chest rising and falling heavily with each gasp of air. “I’m so fucking close, Hermione. I can see you on my desk, your legs spread, my lips on your fucking beautiful breasts, my cock pumping in and out of your delicious cunt… your screams as you beg me… _fuck_ … to… to… take you… faster… harder… fuck, I’m…”

He cried out, his release splashing over his fist and his stomach.

Hermione was in agony, wanting more than anything to be in his arms, wrapped around his body, feeling her walls clenched tightly around him. 

Moments felt like hours as they passed; Hermione could only stare at her husband as he came down from his orgasm, his breathing slowing, his body relaxing. His eyes remained closed until he regained his composure, then a wicked smile graced his perfect face. 

He silently summoned a quill from his desk and floated it gently towards his wife. It swayed downwards until it hovered just in front of her exposed lips. With another quick movement of his fingers, the ornate peacock feather brushed against her clit and Hermione came with such force her eyes rolled back in her head. 

_“Finite Incantatem.”_

The bonds that held her vanished instantly, leaving Hermione slumped back in the chair, her body limp. 

Draco reclined casually, waiting for her to come around with a devious smirk on his face. He lifted his hand up, studying his release with interest as it rolled and dripped from one fingertip to the next. Slowly he sucked his index finger into his mouth, tasting himself with a moan of approval. 

“I can see why you like it so much,” he commented, “I should taste myself more often. But, that wouldn’t be fair, would it? There wouldn’t be enough for you. And I don’t like to tease, Hermione. I like to share.”

He stood and positioned himself between her legs, lining his hardening cock with her mouth. 

“Now, this is how we share, my love,” he coaxed, pushing himself forward. “Isn’t this nice?”

Hermione’s body trembled, her hands grasping for Draco’s hips as he began to thrust into her mouth. His taunts aroused her again, tightening her nipples, drenching her core. She was more than ready for him, desperate to prove she wasn’t a tease, that she was a good girl. 

His good girl. 


End file.
